


I'm going slightly mad

by Banashee



Series: Somebody to Love (Phlint Verse) [4]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, B.A.R.F. | Binarily Augmented Retro Framing, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Gaslighting, Gen, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2019, No violence or non-con in between main characters though!!, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sickness, Team as Family, Virus, butchered comic book science, inaccurate science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-21 09:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21296906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: My project for NaNoWriMo2019--The Avengers feel utterly useless and humiliated.As they run through old and twisted memories and remain unsuccessful in stopping them or getting a shot at Mysterio, their constant fight is exhausting them. Emotionally more so than anything – it's hard to keep going when they're so laid open, forced to reveal private things in such a twisted way. No matter how this fight ends, it will be a tough aftermath, that much is certain.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Somebody to Love (Phlint Verse) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480097
Comments: 32
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there,  
This is my first NaNoWriMo and I'm equal parts excited and terrified.  
Will I get to 50k? I have no fucking clue.  
Will I hopefully finish this baby in November? I sure hope so.
> 
> Please mind the trigger warnings for this one! As always, if you would like me to tag anything else please let me know. 
> 
> \- Psychological trauma, torture and horror  
\- Mindfuckery in general  
\- sickness, illness  
\- PTSD, Trauma  
\- Violence  
\- child abuse  
\- sexual and non-sexual violence

**I'm going slightly mad**

***+~** **Chapter 1**

It is not supposed to go that way.

No one can tell what went wrong in the end, and it takes them too long to figure it out. By the time they do, the damage is already done.

It starts out like the flu, nothing more than any average wave of sickness in the cold months. People cough and sneeze and feel under the weather, but they push on as usual. Bills to pay, families to take care of. Nearly no one can afford to stay home in good ol' Capitalist America.

The scientists have gone mad. Some fight each other, some tear their work spaces apart with bare hands, some sit on the floor and rock themselves back and forth.

A few have killed themselves.

The virus easily bonds with the nano chips, traveling through air ways, through the human body and they bond and evolve in horrible places. What their original purpose was, most people never find out. It spreads, and by the time they get behind it all, it has long left their facility.

*+~

The middle aged man sneezes. Again.

Annoyed, he wipes his nose in the crook of his elbow, sniffles and then enters the tower made of glass and metal. The lady at the reception looks up, recognizes him and his boxes full of grocery bags and smiles as she waves at him.

"Hi, Joshua!"

"Lou, hi! Have a good day!" He sneezes again. " 'scuse me."

"Get well soon, there's something in the air!" she calls, and then the elevator takes him up to his regular clients.

The door opens and Joshua grins up at Captain America himself, currently off-duty and clad in light blue jeans and a flannel shirt.

"Usual Delivery for the Avengers" he calls out, and Steve Rogers smiles.

"Thank you Joshua, come on in." He even takes the load off of him, because momma Rogers raised her son with _manners _and he will be damned if he stops now.

Joshua sneezes again.

"Bless you, buddy."

When he leaves a few minutes later, he does so with a steaming travel mug of herbal tea in his hand – the Avengers wouldn't let him leave without it, wishing him well and "take care of yourself.".

The Captain sends him off with a well meaning clap on the shoulder, and Joshua shoots him a smile.

He's been their grocery delivery guy for about two years now, and they always have a friendly word for him, a quick drink or something to snack on.

There are always homemade goods, because apparently superheroes like to bake in their free time. Or it's just handy to do when you have to feed a supersoldier and a god, amongst other people.

Whatever the case, friendly regulars like the Avengers really really make Joshua’s day. His job is a stressful one, and it's nice to know that people care.

He sneezes again, and his head is starting to feel heavy.

He's pretty sure he just saw a flash of something when Captain America clapped his shoulder, but it might just be the cold he's incubating right now.

*+~

“...So at this point, I don't even know why they even bother, it's not like there is much of a choice. Lucky, No! Down boy, this is people food.”

Steve listens with half an ear while Clint is telling him about the latest bureaucratic bullshit that SHIELD cooked up, while trying to stop his dog from stealing anything from the groceries that they're currently packing away.

Lucky whines, giving them his best “I'm a poor, unloved and starving pet”-look, which is lethal even with one eye. The note on the blackboard on the wall betrays him, though.

“**Don't fall for Lucky's play, the one-eyed bastard has been fed.”** Is scrawled on there in Clint's handwriting, with a neat and even **“twice”**. In Phils clean and neat handwriting.

The dog huffs, and leaves the kitchen, walking into the open elevator which JARVIS will take up to the right apartment.

Clint keeps talking, but Steve is no longer listening. He feels a little off, but he can't put his finger on it yet.

“Steve? Hey, earth to cap, do you copy?”

Steve blinks, shaken out of his stupor.

“Yeah, yes, I'm good. Sorry.”

“Are you sure? You looked a bit... Off.”

“I'm okay. Can you please get this?” He asks, shoving a stack of canned goods at his friend and squeezes his shoulder for a moment – and if he was still holding the dang cans he would have dropped them.

It's just a flash, like a little glimpse into a memory that isn't his own.

_A little boy, small and scrawny with a blond mop of thick hair is thrown sideways from the slap across his face. He's scrambling to get away from the man, who looks very much familiar. The man gets up, stumbling and clearly drunk, raising his hand with the bottle. It connects with the boys head, right where his ear is, and then there is blood everywhere._

Steve notices multiple things at once.

His own breath stops for a second and next to him, Clint is tensed up. The cans he's holding fall clattering out of his hands and roll all over the floor in different directions. Neither of them makes a move to pick them up.

A few seconds of silence tick by, and then Clint turns around, face carefully blank, leaving the room without a word.

*+~

Clint keeps his breathing as even as he can.

It's been a while since he's had a random flashback. He doesn't know what triggered it, and uneasiness sits tight in his stomach.

He's had trouble with memories and flashbacks of all sorts after Loki and the whole mindfuck thing and everything after. The norse god had picked his brain apart, mixing everything around. Old and new memories, things he's worked through in years of therapy, long suppressed things he doesn't want to think about ever again. All of it turned vivid and new, right along with newer things. Situations and faces are twisted and changed, all while being alone with his thoughts for weeks.

After Natasha broke him out of Ross' prison, Clint spent many months in therapy to works through everything and sort out the mess left in his head.

Now, even almost three years later, he is still dealing with those things. Not nearly as much as in the beginning and not always nearly as bad, but... It still happens.

He just can't tell but something about the while things bugs him, is different now.

And in true Clint Barton fashion he decides to ignore it, heading down to the shooting range where he spends the next two hours.

When he packs his things up, sorting arrows into different quivers, the thoughts creep back into his mind.

Clint would love to talk to Phil right now, but he left this morning for a mission, radio silence, and he isn't scheduled back for another three days.

Natasha just came back from a mission of her own earlier, and he doesn't want to wake her for this.

So he heads back up upstairs and right into his apartment where Lucky is waiting for him.

Clint spends the rest of the evening laying on the floor in the dark living room, with his dog sprawled out on his chest, warm solid and soft.

His hands keep running through the golden fur and Lucky's cold, wet nose and slobbering tongue keep nuzzling his chin. Clint loves that dog something fierce. He wouldn't know what to do when he loses him one day.

Lucky can tell that his human is anxious – he's always had a knack for knowing, and so he stays close.

*+~

Down in the common kitchen, Steve takes his time picking up the cans, putting away the rest of the groceries.

No matter how he twists and turns it, he's pretty sure he just saw a memory of Clint's. Which. How? And most importantly, why?

Steve is uneasy with the whole thing, but he keeps his mouth shut and wrecks his brain for answers, not realizing that he's been staring at the same packet of cereal for several minutes.

*+~

The alarm sounds at three in the morning and there is no time to think about anything else. Everyone scrambles out of bed to suit up, and in a matter of minutes they're already up in the air.

Tonight, or rater that morning, they fight a bunch of giant, insect-like creatures that spit slime all over downtown DC.

It's a fairly quick and dirty fight, and by the end of it they're all covered in greenish yellow goo, save for Tony, who is well protected inside his suit, although that is fairly splattered, too.

“Well, that was interesting.” he quips, faceplate up and taking in the mess around them. Everything looks in desperate need of a hosing down.

“Speak for yourself. I'll have to shower for about a year to get this shit off of me.” Clint answers over the comm's, sounding annoyed. He'd been in a bad mood when they headed out, and it did not improve over time.

“It could be much worse, at least we're not covered in actual shit.” Tony shoots back, and doesn't blink an eye when his grumpy teammate drops down right next to him from his perch on the roof.

Clint shoots him a glare. “Not. Helping.”

The billionaire shrugs, and flicks a handful of the stuff over at his already soaked friend. The glare intensifies. Most people would have had to duck to avoid some flying hands at this point, but Tony is lucky the archer actually likes him. Instead, he gets a handful of the stuff rubbed into his face and hair. Tony splutters.

“Ew, gross! What the fuck, Legolas!”

And there it is again, that strange, unsettling feeling. A flash of a memory.

But this time, it is not a memory of his own.

_Tony, or a much younger version of him at least, is standing in a group of important looking people, boasting and smiling that fake smile of his that's meant for public appearances and not friends or family. _

_The guy next to him has an arm wrapped around him in a possessive way, and Tony just keeps smiling, keeping his walls all the way up. He empties his drink. _

_The memory then goes unclear, like a bad drug trip shot in a movie. Then Tony wakes up in a bed in a dark room, sluggishly and having no idea where he is. The guy from the gala is next to him, shirtless and smiling a predatory smile. _

It ends as quickly as it started, and both men are startled. They share a look, but neither of them say anything.

*+~

And so it spreads.

Small, friendly touches, and they always share little glimpses, unknowingly and completely accidental.

At first they write it off as coincidental, but it happens too frequently to be anything but _a thing._

Then the sickness starts.

Even Steve and Thor, who should be super protected by supersoldier serum and and being a literal god, start coughing and sneezing.

Clint, who was the second one to catch it spends most of his days bent over the toilet – so do Natasha and Tony, a little while later. Bruce, whose body chemistry isn't entirely human, starts displaying symptoms very soon, too. They're a very sorry bunch, and sluggish minds keep running and running and running about the whole thing.

When Phil gets back from his SHIELD mission, he enters a unusually dark tower. JARVIS informs him that everyone got sick after the latest call out, and so he heads upstairs. The apartment he shares with Clint is equally dark, but he can hear the unfortunate retching and coughing from the bathroom.

Phil enters the room with caution after a quick knock to find his husband pale, sweating and shaking on the bathroom floor next to the toilet – he looks pitiful and barely looks up when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey babe.” he rasps, and then his head disappears in the porcelain bowl again.

“Hi sweetheart. Bad mission?” he asks, rubbing small circles in his partners sweaty back. Clint hums in response, but then they both tense up – Phil thinks he must have imagined it.

But he just saw a glimpse of somehting.

*+~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did Jarvis find anything?” Nat rasps, and takes a sip of her tea, burrowing in an ancient gray hoodie she stole from Clint years ago.  
Tony shakes his head no, brows furrowed. “Not yet. But he's working on it.”  
“I assume he has access to the SHIELD data base, whether they like it or not?” Phil deadpans from his spot at the counter, giving the batter a final whisk.  
“Of course.” Tony almost laughs, but he is too tired. “I don't like this.” he admits then, and shrugs helplessly.  
“Honestly, it's odd. I was thinking that the slime form those creepy fuckers the other day would have something to do with it, but all the tests we ran were negative.” He shrugs helplessly.  
“It actually started before that.” Steve says quietly, sighing deeply.  
“Wait, what?” Several heads whip around to look at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go again!  
I hope you'll like it, but please mind the trigger warnings. As always, if you would like me to tag anything else please let me know.
> 
> \- Psychological trauma, torture and horror  
\- Mindfuckery in general  
\- sickness, illness  
\- PTSD, Trauma  
\- Violence  
\- child abuse  
\- sexual and non-sexual violence

***+~ Chapter 2:**

“The virus is spreading. I can use it to my advantage. And you can do whatever you want to cause chaos. Distract them, I don't care how. Just leave the two of them alive, I want them.”

“As long as you pay me.”

“Of course.”

“So, we have a deal.”

“We have a deal.”

The two men shake hands, and then one turns to leave the room, with a satisfied smile on his face.

Causing chaos is what he does best.

*+~

Since their last call out, the Avengers are pretty much struck down.

Tony and Bruce somehow managed to drag themselves into the lab, to analyze the slime samples which they have plenty of. They're all feeling ill, and significantly off – and the unintentional sharing of shitty memories via touch gets really, really creepy.

When none of their tests give any information about that, they re-run everything, twice. The result stays the same – the creatures goo is not responsible for the Avengers state.

It worries them, and before they pass out in a soft and cozy corner, they have JARVIS reach out into the void, hoping he might be able to find something.

*+~

Thor is sweating and shaking.

He's not used at all to feeling frail and weak like this, and it worries him. There has yet to be a midgardian sickness that might be able to struck him down, but it looks like this is the time. He wipes sticky, damp strands of hair away from his forehead, and burrows deeper into his blankets. His mind is sluggish, and not at all clear, so the answers to what caused this are far, far away. Just out of reach.

All of his shield brothers and sisters are ill at the moment, even the ones who are not mere mortals. Enchantment does not seem to help either their cause or his own.

It worries him even more. In his 1,500 years of existence, on Asgard, Midgard or any other planet, he has not seen any such thing. Sickness and injury, sure.

But as much as he loves earth and it's people, they are weak in comparison. Anything man made that is able to weaken such powerful beings like himself or their Captain or their Doctor, or the Lady Natasha with her enchanted strength, he's never seen anything like it.

A coughing fit shakes the god of thunder, and he slumps back for a moment.

Thor keeps his breathing as calm and even as he can, continuing for a few minutes until he's feeling a little better.

Then he forces himself out of bed and down into the dark kitchen.

Usually, this is one of the places where you can always meet somebody. It's a family room, always warm, always smelling of something delicious.

It's where most if not all of them come together at least once a day to have their feast, but since the last few days, hardly anyone comes down here, the way too far from their beds or from the bathroom where they spend many hours kneeling on the floor being sick.

Thor starts to boil some water, preparing a set of travel mugs with the tea that he knows helps to soothe unwellness. He adds a few dry crackers for everyone, for he doesn't know when any of them has eaten anything and kept it in.

When he is done, he needs to sit down on a chair for a few moments to catch his own breath, to stop his head from spinning.

Then he slowly makes his way into the elevator, and one by one stops in his friends quarters. He delivers the tea and food quietly, or at least as quiet as he can. It takes effort not to touch any of them, but the result of doing so is too emotionally painful for everyone – Thor would not wish to hurt any of them, even without meaning to.

Touch has always been an easy thing for him, and not just in battle. Signs of affection, embraces, back slaps and touches of more intimate nature have always been a big part in his life. After a while of getting used to each other, the casual, affectionate touches become a part of their life’s as a team, as well.

He misses it, craves the feel of another beings skin, the steady heartbeat of another person close. Now, after the unintentional sharing of minds, which hurts them all, they try to avoid touch. After they all have grown used to it.

Wanting the contact, needing the comfort of one another, even their “human cactuses” as Tony had affectionally called their friends Natasha and Clint, especially in the beginning of their companionship. Irony has it, that these two are amongst his favorite movie-snuggle companions these days.

Although the last movie night seems to be ages away in the past.

Most of his teammates are asleep or at least resting when Thor arrives, those who are awake quietly thank him, ask how he's doing.

He answers them honestly, but part of him wishes to lie, just to make them feel better.

A god infected with a mysterious human sickness worries them all very much. What will it mean for the rest of them? They do not know.

*+~

“Please don't touch me, just stop touching me.”

Clint is asleep and feverish, muttering the same words over and over. It's all he says for hours on end, until he wakes up with a start, shivering.

Phil is coughing next to him, carefully keeping his hands to himself while Clint is asleep. It's a stark contrast to how they usually sleep, wrapped around each other and touching as much skin as they can.

It's been a long way to get there from the start, and to get back to that point after Phil came back from the dead. Not that they didn't want to, but touch has been a difficult thing for Clint for most of his life.

Touch always meant bad things. Being beaten bloody and unconscious, grabbed hard enough to bruise and even worse when Clint and his brother Barney lived with the first foster family. Clint didn't say a word to anyone when the father started his nightly visits, only 8 years old and terrified. When he tried to tell Barney weeks later, he didn't listen. Clint didn't say anything at all after family number 5, and kept his mouth shut when a similar routine started out after a few months with the circus.

“It's time you earn your place!” the swordsman told him, voice hard and without any hint of emotion.

His time living on the streets inbetween the circus, the army and SHIELD didn't help.

By the time Clint started to trust Phil, the damage from the years before were long done. Somehow, by some miracle, Clint had trusted him enough to allow his friendship and even fell in love with him.

Everything that happened or didn't happen between them came with lots and lots of communication and patience, but they found each other and won't let go.

When Clint and Phil are awake these days, they wrap themselves in layers of clothes and blankets, so they can cuddle without actually touching while this... thing is going on.

They know most of each others baggage by now. But having to see it, having to re-live it every time they touch is too much.

They also don't want to take away from the comfort that they usually are for each other.

*+~

It takes a little while, but the worst of the symptoms fade.

Which doesn't mean that the whole mess is over – they may not cough up a lung or vomit every five minutes, but touch results in the same strange phenomenon as before.

This morning is the first one in a while where the whole team meets for breakfast in the kitchen. Everyone looks pale and exhausted.

Clint is busy at the stove, bleary eyed and hair a disaster as he's frying some eggs, bacon and fluffy pancakes in separate pans. Phil is next to him, preparing a new batch of batter.

The chatter filling the room isn't nearly as lively as it would be otherwise, even early in the morning and with no caffeine... So far.

Steve slides a mug of black coffee over to Tony.

“If that is decaf I will hurt you, Rogers.”

The Captain holds his gaze without a word or movement.

“I'm sorry, thanks.”

Natasha and Thor are setting the table while Bruce cuts up fruit. His curls stand up in every direction, even more so than usual. He seems to stare off into space, only half aware of his surroundings.

“Did Jarvis find anything?” Nat rasps, and takes a sip of her tea, burrowing in an ancient gray hoodie she stole from Clint years ago.

He borrowed it to her nearly a decade ago, when she had bad luck and got drenched in a civilians vomit on a mission. She intended to give it back, but it never found it's way back to him. He wore it from time to time, still does, but it always finds it's way back into her quarters. No one tell that the Black Widow is slightly sentimental – she would have sneered at it years ago, but allowing herself a bit of softness is a luxury she's very happy to be able to afford.

Natasha looks up from her cup. She would love to crawl back to bed right now.

Tony shakes his head no, brows furrowed. “Not yet. But he's working on it.”

“I assume he has access to the SHIELD data base, whether they like it or not?” Phil deadpans from his spot at the counter, giving the batter a final whisk.

“Of course.” Tony almost laughs, but he is too tired. “I don't like this.” he admits then, shrugs helplessly. 

“Honestly, it's odd. I was thinking that the slime form those creepy fuckers the other day would have something to do with it, but all the tests we ran were negative.”/p> 

“It actually started before that.” Steve says quietly, sighing deeply.

“Wait, what?” Several heads whip around to look at him, but it's Clint who answers.

“Yes. Truth be told, I didn't think anything of it at first. Thought it was some random flashback, after... You know, after. It happens. Shit's weird.” He avoids the others eyes.

“I thought it was just that. And you were a bit off before, Steve...” He shoots his friend a quick look before he stares intensely on the food he's preparing. Suddenly, he doesn't feel hungry anymore.

Steve nods, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

The kitchen is silent for several minutes, the only noises are coming from the sizzling pans in front of him.

“So, we know it happens via touch. When was the first time either of you experienced this? Since I'm assuming for everyone else it was only after our last battle?” Bruce breaks the silence, worrying a dishcloth in his hands.

“We were packing away groceries. Steve handed me some stuff and touched me for a moment. Had a flashback, but...” Clint shrugs helplessly. Steve looks just as upset.

“I thought I was seeing things. First time it happened was when our delivery guy left. He was sick, I was wishing him well... Thought I was imagining it, didn't last long at all. Then in the kitchen... It wasn't like a flashback for me. It was like I saw a fragment of _your_ memory, Clint. I'm sorry.” he apologizes, like any of this is his fault.

“After the battle, when I touched you, Tony. I thought I saw something from you.” Clint adds, forcing himself to look at his friend, who holds his gaze for a moment.

“If the touches last longer, it might get mixed around again. I don't think any of it lasted long enough for... Reasons.” He vaguely gestures through the air.

Clint shares a look with Phil.

“It does. Happened a few times to us when we were sleeping.”

“Alright, but... That still doesn't help us find out why this happened or what we can do to stop it.”

No one knows an answer to that.

*+~

Anxiety is like the one unloved roommate that no one can seem to get rid of. The better their physical health gets, the more they worry.

It's the uneasiness, the not knowing what exactly they're fighting, except their own heads and fears.

Being touch-starved as hell doesn't help.

Most of them would have laughed about that one a few years back, when trust was hard and being close to more than one or two people would have been unthinkable. These days, they're so used to and comfortable around each other that no one bats an eye when a few or all of them are piled up somewhere, casually cuddling.

Bruce is chopping vegetables next to Clint. Neither of them is talking very much, but it feels good to do something useful. The bell peppers, zucchini, mushrooms and carrots end up in precise little cubes, which is one clear anxiety tell.

JARVIS rises them out of their funk, suggesting everyone should meet up as soon as possible, because he might have found relevant information.

“Mam, Sirs, I apologize for interrupting but I felt it necessary to inform you of this. In a military facility nearby, overseen by Secretary Ross, an unknown virus was accidentally created and set free. None of it was officially documented before, which is why I was only able to access this information now. It might be relevant to your current situation.” JARVIS cool, British voice breaks the silence.

Clint can feel his stomach drop. Fucking Ross – thankfully, he didn't have a personal encounter with him or his minions since after the whole clusterfuck about three years ago, but the memories are still vivid and colorful – now more so than usual. He knows Phil is looking worriedly at him, and he wants to reach out so, so bad.

Instead, he meets Bruce's eyes. Both of them know from own experiences, what Ross and his lackeys are capable of.

Suddenly, the windows are exploding.

Alarms are blaring everywhere and the Avengers grab the nearest things they use for a weapon. Bruce is turning green right on the spot, and moments later the Hulk is yelling loudly, smashing the nearest wall in fear and confusion.

Then, a figure comes sauntering into the room from the landing platform just outside.

It's a man, wearing a green suit, purple cape and, oddly enough, a fishbowl filled with smoke over his entire head.

He should look funny. But no one can find any humor in the situation.

“Oh, hello hello there, don't let me interrupt!” The mysterious man exclaims in fake excitement, and before anyone can do anything, he produces a thick smoke from god knows where, and activates a device, which is startlingly familiar to Tony.

“Fuck!” he curses, as he tries to blast the guy out of the way using his iron man glove, Natasha and Phil shoot, thank fuck they store guns _everywhere_, and Clint, unable to get his bow in time launches onto the guy with the huge kitchen knife he'd grabbed off the counter. Hulk launches forward as well, as do Steve and Thor with their own weapons.

But it's too late – the world around them vanishes in smoke, and suddenly, the scenery changes entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories get twisted around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, welcome back to the Angst Fest!  
This chapter is quite graphic in places.  
Please mind the trigger warnings for this one! As always, if you would like me to tag anything else please let me know.
> 
> \- Psychological trauma, torture and horror  
\- Mindfuckery in general  
\- gaslighting  
\- PTSD, Trauma  
\- (Graphic) Violence  
\- child abuse  
\- sexual and non-sexual violence  
\- Character Death  
\- Suicide  
\- Homophobic language  
\- Homophobia in general

***+~ Chapter 3:**

The smoke clears up. They stand on a cemetery, on a gray and rainy day, amongst a small group of mourning people who don't seem to acknowledge them at all. On the new and open grave a tiny headstone is already standing.

“Sarah Rogers 1900 – 1936” it says on it in neat, brand new letters.

Steve can feel a lump rising in his throat, but he swallows it and clenches his jaw shut. So does the small, sickly version of him next to the grave, stoic and head up. The dark haired, young man next to him wraps one protective arm around his slighter frame. It's Bucky, of course. Kind, beautiful and loyal Bucky. He pulls him a little bit closer.

Then the scenery changes, as gaunt hands dig up from beneath. Dead bodies crawl their way up to the surface, rotting away or already reduced to nothing but bones. The freshly dug out grave in front of them moves and a blonde woman with a small, fragile frame and sickly pale, face gaunt and marked from her illness, claws her way over to Steve.

He stands in a stupor, wide eyed and breathing carefully even as his mother grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pulls him down to her eye level and just starts screeching. It's a high pitched, loud and animalic sound that makes everyone flinch.

Mysterio laughs and it echos from all sides. He appears and disappears everywhere at once, leaving the Avengers to fight thin air. The smoke thickens and clears up again.

The freezing cold from the mountain top whips around them in an unforgiving wind.

A train is moving over thin railroad on top of snowy cliffs. Steve can see himself, tall and broad and strong as he is now, climbing on top of the moving train. Bucky is with him, and then he suddenly turns his head, smiling a smile that doesn't look like him at all. It's unsettling.

“Why didn't you try harder?” he asks, voice cold.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, and the hurt is obvious in his eyes.

“To save me, of course.” Bucky answers, and then he lets himself fall backwards, locking his eyes with Steve before he disappears in the depths, falling, falling and falling.

He's screaming his name, but then the thick smoke changes everything again.

*+~

The room around them looks old, but it's prestige and clean, apart from the bullet holes in the walls.

In front of one wall, three girls are lined up, backs turned to the room and dark fabric bags over their heads.

A tall, stern looking woman talks in Russian, fixing the red headed girl in the middle of the room in her cold gaze.

She is dressed in a white blouse and a perfectly ironed skirt. She'd look formal, if it wasn't for the gun in her small hand.

“_Do it, Natalia. They have failed, but you are stronger. Now finish the job.”_

Both the child and adult Natasha closes her eyes for a moment. Natasha remembers this day, even . Her younger self fires the gun three times and it sounds as loud as if she used a cannon in the otherwise silent room.

The girls on the wall drop to the floor, one after the other, where they crumble into a lifeless heap.

Natalia is as white as snow, but her expression doesn't betray her.

The woman behind her nods approvingly, reaches out to brush the girls hair back with her hand. The touch is almost affectionate.

“_Very well.”_

Mysterio is everywhere and nowhere. He stands half behind Natalia, putting a hand on her cheek.

“Such a young little killer. Do you still remember their faces?” he asks, and suddenly the room is covered in blood. It's dripping from the walls, furniture, the ceiling.

Natasha stares, as the dead girls stand up from the floor, and remove their bags one by one. What is left of their heads and faces looks only vaguely human.

The room and the people twist and turn, until a teenaged Natalia is in a dark, wet cell. Only a small cot is in the corner, with a pitcher of water next to it. The only door is made of heavy iron and with bars in it, and it makes a squeaking noise as it's opened.

A burly man three times her age enters the room, approaching her in a nonchalant and predatory way. Natalia fights tooth and nail, without any weapons, just her bare hands. At first it looks like she might get the upper hand, but soon it is obvious that the man is just playing around. When he gets bored of it, he pins her down and just takes what he wants while his face is changing back and forth between different people.

Mysterio's laugh echoes everywhere. He is nowhere to be seen, and it is impossible to take the Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing device away from him.

No escape from the smoke. It embraces them in its dullness again.

*+~

The halls are enormous, prunk and glittering with gold and jewels.

On a large, long table, which should be shaking under the load of mead, beer and food, the gods of Asgard feast. It's loud, people talk and laugh and sing, but on Odin's Right, his oldest son sits awfully quiet.

Thor looks to be what must be Asgard's age equivalent to a child before puberty. His eyes are cast down, and only on second glance the chains on his arms and legs are visible. They are bolted to the table, holding him there, right next to his father that he loves, but even more so fears.

The boy eats in silence, and in no way as plentiful or enthusiastic as Thor normally would. Next to him, Loki glances in his direction with his bright green eyes and doesn't say a word.

Suddenly, Odins head spins around in a way that should not be possible, with an ugly sneer on his face.

"You will never be worthy!" he booms, and the table erupts into loud and cruel laughter.

Everything around them spins in circles. Mysterio multiplies himself, laughing along while he lounges on the table, toasting the others with a jug of beer.

More smoke arises and turns the world grey for a moment. Lights and different places swirl around them, and suddenly Frigga appears in front of Thor, smiling a sad smile at him. She opens her mouth to say something, but her voice is dead. A small trail of blood trickles down the corner of her mouth, and she clutches her chest where a dagger is imbedded.

Thor cries out. Then his mothers face changes into Loki. He looks at his brother, head crooked to the side.

"Why do you keep failing us?" he asks, before he vanishes into more smoke.

*+~

The Avengers feel utterly useless and humiliated.

As they run through old and twisted memories and remain unsuccessful in stopping them or getting a shot at Mysterio, their constant fight is exhausting them. Emotionally more so than anything – it's hard to keep going when they're so laid open, forced to reveal private things in such a twisted way. No matter how this fight ends, it will be a tough aftermath, that much is certain.

Thor screams in anguish. Natasha is shaking violently, but still standing. Steve is breathing hard, fighting off his emotions to keep it together.

The scenery changes.

*+~

They are in a vaguely familiar room – it clearly looks like a room that Tony would have, although it's not in the tower. Tony himself is quite a few years younger than they know him now, and he's sitting on a couch, near a modern looking fire place, clearly drained. He doesn't seem to notice the door opening behind him, and a large, bald man enters the room, approaching Tony from behind. In a matter of seconds, he paralyzes the younger man with a strange device. He is fully awake, but unable to move. His eyes are wide in horror, though.

*"Breathe. Easy, easy." Obadiah Stane whispers in Tonys ear. He holds the device he just used in front of his face, as if there was any doubt.

*"You remember this one, right? It's a shame the government didn't approve it. There’s so many applications for causing short-term paralysis."

Tony can feel every single hair on his body stand up straight, feeling the waves of fear and disgust, even though he knows this isn't real, just an illusion of his memory. The thought doesn't help.

*"Tony." Obadiah continues, "When I ordered the hit on you, I worried that I was killing the golden goose. But, you see, it was just fate that you survived that. You had one last golden egg to give. Do you really think that just because you have an idea, it belongs to you? Your father, he helped give us

the atomic bomb. Now, what kind of world would it be today if he was as selfish as you?"

And with that, he forcefully removes the ARC reactor out of his chest. Holding it up in front of his face, just out of reach. Teasingly, as the shrapnel pieces slowly wander closer to Tony's heart. Even now, watching the scene unfold, he wants to throw up. Especially with the way Stane gets up into his personal space, almost straddling him in a creepy and predatory way that turns his stomach.

*"Oh, it's beautiful. Tony, this is your Ninth Symphony. What a masterpiece. Look at that.

This is your legacy. A new generation of weapon with this at its heart. Weapons that will help steer the world back on course,put the balance of power in our hands. The right hands. I wish you could've seen my prototype. It's not as... Well, not as conservative as yours. Too bad you had to involve Pepper in this. I would have preferred that she lived."

And with that bomb, Odabiah leaves the room, leaving Tony alone there to die. Even now, years after the fact and knowing that the part about Pepper had been a bluff – the words hurt deeply.

Mysterio appears, again in multiple places, constantly moving. One is slowly clapping his hands together.

"Oh, what a show!"

He sits down next to Tony on the couch, wrapping an arm around him and keeping him in place. To stop him from using his slowly returning mobility as a chance to crawl down to the workshop and save himself. Part of him knows, Rhodey won't be here this time.

"And so the golden goose is finally useful." Mysterio coos, laughing as the laser beams and bullets fly right at and through him.

"Get your fucking hands off of me." Tony bites out, shaking with anger and a million other emotions.

"Isn't it lonely, my dear?" Mysterio asks softly, and disappears again as Tony on the sofa is deathly pale and unmoving. Unable to help himself.

Tony watches his younger self die a painful and lonely death, and then the smoke thickens again.

It lights up to reveal they're on another cemetery.

This time, there are no people except for a teenage boy who is sitting cross legged in front of a rich and decorated grave full of fresh flower bouquets.

"Edwin Jarvis" says the stone, with a date of death in 1990. "Ana Jarvis" on the same stone has a date of death just a few years before that.

Tony feels like he just got punched in the guts. He stopped counting how often he went to visit to talk to them, living or dead. Tell them about his day or just rant when he needed to.

In his school breaks, free time from college and even as an adult owning a multi billion dollar company – these two people are, in many aspects, like a pair of parents to him. Sometimes even more so than Howard and Maria, because Edwin and Ana had always, always been there when he needed someone to talk to or just somebody to hug tightly, to make the spinning thoughts in his head calm down.

They've been gone for way too long.

Tony watches his teenage self sit, slowly stroking the tombstone. He can't hear the words, spoken too softly to carry through the air, but no doubt personal and full of love for these two people buried beneath the place he's sitting on.

Then, the tombstone disappears – no zombies or monsters or terrifying images. They just vanish. Leave him alone, even in their death.

*+~

The scenery disappears in smoke.

When it's thinning again, they find themselves in what looks to be a normal, American school. There are quite a few people in the hallway, and judging from their hair and clothing, it looks to be the early 1980s.

Suddenly, it's like somebody opened the gates to hell. People start yelling, throwing small objects in one direction. Books, tennis balls, old chewing gum – anything they can get a hold of.

"Faggot!" they yell, "Fucking Fairy!" and other homophobic slurs.

One dark haired boy, maybe 15 or 16 years old, covers his head to protect himself as he pushes past, trying to get to his locker.

Phil could swear that Mysterio appears inbetween the students, changing positions in a matter of seconds. His head is hidden in his fishbowl helmet, but he can hear the chuckle, even over the rest of the noise.

Some older boys grab Phil.

"Get away from me, fuck off!" he yells at them, fruitlessly trying to fight back.

He might be able to kill three men with a single hair pin and keep a room full of cold blooded criminals in check with one look now, but there were years in his life when this wasn't even something he'd remotely have thought of.

One of the taller, stronger boys who press him with his back against the lockers just laughs in his face, and spits a clump of snot and saliva into his face. Then he raises his fist and breaks Phils nose with a nauseating noise. Blood is dripping everywhere, but they don't stop.

Another boy stands by, watches with mild interest and without a word, amongst the group of students who surround the scene.

"David, help me!" he desperately calls out to the silent boy, but he just shakes his head no.

"Why should I?" he asks coldly, and something in Phil breaks.

"This is your fault, is it? You told everyone!" he accuses, and his head gets thrown sideways from another punch.

David shrugs. "Don't come near me again, princess. You might be contagious."

Phil remembers it still. David had been so sweet, and so nice, his first love. He'd pushed to go all the way, but Phil didn't feel ready at the time. What happened after that over the weekend, he can only guess, but on this horrible Monday morning, all hell breaks lose and it puts Phil in the hospital.

Later, when he sits is the directors office, he tells him how everything went down.

"They called me a fag and all sorts of things. Then they started attacking me." Breathing is hard. Especially when the director looks at him, eyes narrowed.

"Well, are you a faggot?" he asks, his gaze cold and uninterested. He nods knowingly when Phil stumbles over his words, and dismisses him.

When he leaves the office, a mob of people wait outside, and hands drag him along, and Phil gets buried under screaming and laughing people with cold, clawing hands.

As the scenery changes again, Phil is a good 25 years older than he was in the previous memory, and he's frantically kicking in a door to private SHIELD rooms, hands shaking and cursing. He calls out for Clint, and as they watch the memory, both of them can feel their stomach drop.

This was a day that none of them likes to remember. They reach out for each others hands, but let go after seconds when everything at once just gets too much.

Phil almost stumbles when he forces his way in, takes a quick and panicked look around the sparse room. It doesn't look lived in, and lacks any hint of personality.

There is a light shining under the bathroom door, and when he throws it open, a bitten off sound that might be a sob escapes him.

He steps into a growing puddle of blood, and rushes over to his partners hunched over form, sitting on the floor with his back leaned against the shower wall. Clint is pale, cheeks sunken in and with too much stubble. He's lost weight, and his hair looks messy, limp and unwashed.

Clint is mostly unconscious by now, still holding his stealth knife in a tight grip while blood is rapidly pooling down his arms.

Phil is scrambling to try and stop the bleeding, while he's calling for help over his phone, but no one comes, and Clint bleeds out under his hands. Phil doesn't stop to try and safe him.

Minutes after the last breath left Clint's lungs, his body spasms and he opens his eyes, blinking at Phil and fixing him in his cold, dead stare.

"You weren't there. This is your fault." he says, in a angry tone of voice he's never used for Phil before (and never has in real life).

"This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault." He keeps repeating, like a broken record, and the world disappears in thick, dark smoke again.

*+~

As their surroundings become clearer, they turn into a sparse but very modern looking prison cell.

"Fuck." Clint curses under his breath. He knows exactly where they are and what is likely about to happen for everyone to see. He swallows a mouthful of bile.

Mysterio chuckles, but he remains invisible, has for some time. All they can do is stand and wait, and it's pissing them off to no end.

A slightly younger version of Clint is held down onto the floor, face pressed down and hitting the stone repeatedly as one of the guards is violently pushing into him, two others holding him down. They laugh and cheer, while Clint is too exhausted and undernourished to even try and fight back. It's no use – they always hurt him worse when he tries.

A while later, they forcefully turn him around and one of the guards who held him down now dislocates his jaw in a quick and violent movement.

While the guards continue to use him as they please, their faces keep changing around. People Clint knows, some who never had anything to do with a situation like this. Then the faces twist and turn, painted like circus clowns with wide, grinning mouths and shrill, high pitched laughs, some even too high pitched for his hearing aids to pick up.

Clint stops fighting entirely as the breath leaves his lungs for a moment. He needs to focus to keep breathing and not freak out right here and then.

When the room spins and disappears into smoke again, he almost feels relief. Until the scenery is clear again.

They find themselves on a rooftop, looking over a dark and dirty street corner of some anonymous big city.

The young man perced on it with his bow looks haunted and underweight, but still strong. His sharp eyes miss nothing, and he keeps his entire body carefully still, unmoving, breath regulated.

He is aiming at a group of unfamiliar men down on the street, smoking cigarettes inbetween old brick walls and dumpsters that reek as if they hadn't been emptied for far too long.

The three arrows that imbed themselves in their heads do so nearly soundless – the men never hear or see their death coming, and all of them drop to the floor in a matter of seconds, no time to gasp or scream or warn their comrades.

Clint packs up and makes his way over the rooftops another few blocks north. An older man in a flawless but bland suit meets him on another corner, nods and hands over a duffel bag.

The younger man takes it without a word, just nods and then he disappears again, not a single emotion showing on his face.

Clint enters a room in a cheap and shabby motel, closes the door and then throws up bile into the sink in the bathroom.

The men he just assassinated step out of thin air, arrows grotesquely sticking out of their heads as they stumble towards Clint with outstretched hands, dragging him down to the floor where they are swallowed by the thick, gray smoke again.

*+~

Hulk stands uncharacteristically still. He doesn't move, because Banner forbids him to, terrified they'll hurt their friends.

But then he sees himself, as he was many many yeas ago, just after the accident that changes his life – _their_ lifes. They're running, running and running, as far and as fast away as they can. They hide.

Bruce is alone. More alone as he's never felt before in his life, which is saying something, considering he now shares his body with Hulk.

Far away in a foreign country, where he offers help and medical support to those who are in need, he still doesn't know a single soul, keeping his distance. No one would know if he wasn't going to come back.

Betty, hopefully, moved on without him by now. He loves her still, but sticking around would hurt her more. He'd never forgive himself if he put any harm on her.

Bruce hikes over a mountain top, and naturally no one else is around. Although he is somewhere south, there is snow crunching under his booted feet. Bruce is exhausted and thirsty, but he doesn't care, pushes on. It won't matter, in the end.

Stumbling across the path, he collapses on the floor, breathing hard. The way is long still, but then again, he might as well stay here.

Bruce sits down a bit more comfortably, watching the beautiful landscape unfold in front of him.

He takes some time to breathe, to let go. The thoughts and self-hatred are slowly taking over.

The scientist gets up from the floor, eyes sad and shaking his head. So this is it, he thinks. Hopes that Betty will be well and happy and successful in her life.

Bruce rifles through his old backpack that is held together by more ductape than fabric and easily obtains what he was looking for. The gun feels cold and foreign in his hand.

One last look down the mountain, then he puts the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. He turns green and starts growing, ripping through clothing in a matter of seconds. Then Hulk spits out the bullet and roars loud enough for the trees to shake, for the snow to ball up and crash downwards.

He jumps, and tries to get away as soon as possible. But he is right back at the spot just a second later.

"Aw, poor you. Can't even kill yourself." Mysterio shakes his head in mock sympathy. Hulk growls at him, and the illusion disappears, reappears and disappears in a rapid pattern all around him. The big guy is suspicious, and scared out of his mind.

Hulk grabs the Illusionist, and he turns himself into Betty.

"Please... No..." She whispers weakly, clawing at her neck where the big green hand is grabbing her. But Hulk doesn't let go, and the world around them turns into smoke again.

The room is small and dark.

An mans angry voice is cutting through it, hollering degrading names at a small, dark haired woman who is tearfully stepping away from him, well aware of how this usually goes.

"Leave her alone, go away!" a much smaller voice yells back, and a short wiry boy with the same dark curls as his mom is shoving at the mans legs and stomach, punching him although he knows he isn't strong enough to cause any serious harm.

"Shut up, you little freak!" Brian Banner shouts his breath drenched in the sharp, alcoholic smell. He shoves Bruce off, and throws his empty bottle after him. Then he turns back to Rebecca, and what happens next doesn't even take a full minute, but it feels like it's stretching on forever.

He pins her down, and grabs her head in both hands. Soon, there is blood everywhere and Rebecca Banner doesn't move anymore.

Bruce, sitting on the floor in shock just a few feet away, completely shuts down. Doesn't move, doesn't talk.

Mysterio and his clones walk around the room, just like he did so many times before.

"This is your fault." Brian tells Bruce, "If you hadn't done anything, Mom would still be alive." But the words don't even register anymore.

*+~

When the smoke around them finally disappears, so does Mysterio.

The Avengers find themselves still in the tower, at home. The windows and a wall are in pieces around them, and suddenly it's too quiet. The only thing breaking the silence is hard, shuddering breathing, the tell tale sound of panic attacks being attempted to fight off.

Hulk roars loudly, almost like a wail. His eyes are huge, and before someone can do anything, he runs off, jumping out of the broken front window and disappearing in the distance.

*+~

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* DISCLAIMER! The dialogue parts spoken by Stane in Tony's first memory are from the Iron Man 1 movie transcript and I have no ownership whatsoever over it!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  


*+~

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome back and thank you for reading!  
This chapter is a little shorter, but none the less, please mind the trigger warnings. Als always, if you would like me to tag anything else, please let me know!
> 
> \- PTSD  
\- Panic Attacks  
\- Torture (not graphic)  
\- Self harm (nothing graphic)

***+~ Chapter 4:**

Bruce wakes up in a pile of rubble and with a killer headache.

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to massage out a bit of the pain. It takes him a moment to figure out what happened, but his foggy memory clears up fast. The attack in the tower, chaos and mindfuckery. Mysterio._ Ross_, and his fucking escaped virus and – yeah, this must have been a distraction, and whatever the result, Bruce just knows they're all going to hate it.

He has no idea how far away Hulk ran. The big guy can run and jump way faster and way bigger distances than one might think due to his massive size, but Bruce knows this is bad news.

When he tries to get up from the pile of stones, the pain riffles through his entire body again, and he flops back down, wants nothing more than to get home and just sleep for a few days. But things are never this easy, especially not for him.

Also, clothes would probably a good idea. He'd been in his pajamas when the attack happened earlier that day, and naturally Hulk had ripped everything.

Now he's naked, alone and in an unfamiliar place. It's nothing new to him at all, but this time he's much more uneasy about it. Something feels off.

Breathing calm and easy, the scientist pushes himself up again, meaning to find something to cover himself and hopefully a phone so he can let the others know that he's okay – they're probably already looking for him.

Then, there is a sudden prick in the side of his neck, and when he touches it out of sheer reflex, he pulls out a tranquilizer shot.

“Shit” he curses, uselessly trying to scramble away before the sedative kicks in, but it's too late.

He stumbles, falls and can feel his lip split open. Bruce looks up, and his vision is blurry, everything is spinning. All he can make out are several pairs of combat boots near him, and then he's out like a light.

*+~

The tower is left in a mess of destruction, glass and metal and concrete scattered everywhere.

Mysterio disappeared just as quick as he turned up, and now everyone is trying to get their shit under control.

Tony rants about stolen tech, fucking assholes and invading private memories, and has anyone seen where Hulk went? “We have to – we need to – fuck.”

He's breathing too hard and too quickly, almost hyperventilating. He needs to keep it together right now because when he freaks out he can't think clearly. But the crippling panic isn't having any of his logic, so he needs to put his head between his knees to try and focus on calming down.

“Wherever he is, we need to find him and quickly. This whole thing smells like a distraction, and if Ross – “ Clint can feel his head spinning, and his guts are revolting. He turns away to retch up whatever is left in his empty stomach.

He can faintly hear the others murmuring, although his head is spinning too fast to make out any specific words. But he knows that they all agree.

This surprise attack in their home was anything but random.

It's conveniently wrapping them up in their various PTSD flashbacks, and in the meantime... He doesn't want to think what could happen in the meantime. The mere thought of what could happen almost sends his mind spinning and him curling up on the floor somewhere, but he forces himself to keep it together as much as he can.

'This is a mission. Get in your headspace, do your thing, fight. Do whatever is necessary to end this mess, be there for the team, you can always fall apart later.' the calm and collected voice in the back of his head instructs him.

And because there is no other choice, Clint obeys. He forcefully breathes a few times, collecting himself. Then he gets up from the floor, legs still shaky, but his voice holds a confident determination that even surprises himself a little bit.

“Okay, so where do we start?”

Various pairs of eyes are fixed on him.

“We should suit up. There is no use heading out half dressed.” Natasha replies, carefully even and not a hint of emotion in her voice.

She is regulating her breathing, calming down to prepare for battle. Her eyes are overshadowed by darkness, but Clint can tell she is pulling herself together in the same way he does. This is something they both know how to do expertly, however, this situation is so much more personal than any kind of battle they had before.

She locks eyes with him for a moment, and just nods. They don't need words for each other.

Phil next to him is doing the exact same thing, expression carefully bland, not giving anything away. Just like him and Natasha, he retreats back into a headspace where he can deal with things. They have shit to do, so there is no time to freak out now. They have decades of practice with that particular stunt.

And Phil nods to their statements, pushing himself up from the floor. The only thing giving him away is the slight shake in his hands, but even that disappears soon. He's pushing back everything that makes him Phil, allowing Agent Coulson to take over for now.

“JARVIS, track Hulks heat signature from your readings please.” Tony replies, voice still shaky but he's trying his best. He gets up from the floor, helping up Steve who just collapsed next to him with his gloved hand. Touch won't help, given it would only make the situation worse right now.

Steve accepts the help with a grateful nod, and he, too, is visibly pulling himself together.

“Pack whatever weapons you can carry. Suit up. We'll meet here and figure out the rest on the way.” he orders, not quite sounding like himself. There is a slight waver in his voice, and his eyes look haunted.

Thor is already standing, looking grim and nods shortly, then he and the others split up to get dressed and arm themselves for a battle against the unknown.

*+~

Bruce wakes up to a burning, seething pain that would make him curl up on himself if he was able to.

As it is, there is something holding him down to a cold, smooth surface. This is, unfortunately, not an unfamiliar sensation to him, but it still sends a shiver down his spine. He's mostly undressed, and the cold table pressed into his skin feels like he might freeze. Although a bit of cloth seems to cover at least his privacy – which is only a small comfort, considering he just woke up tied down fuck knows where.

Which – he tires to move his head, but doesn't come far. He is restrained on his neck, waist, arms, hands and legs. No way to move more than a few inches, not nearly enough to do anything. But he can tell that he must be in some kind of laboratory, or a very questionable medical facility.

The source of the burning pain must be in those IV bags that steadily drip down into the needles in his veins. Bruce has no idea what it is they're dosing him with, but he can _feel_ it, and he just knows it means trouble. Whatever it is, it makes him feel weak in a way that has nothing to do with his recent transformation into the Hulk, and it worries him.

Bruce is missing his glasses, but even so, the words around him is much more foggy and unfocused than it should be.

He breathes out, in, and out again and _does not panic_ because panicking never helps.

Something beeps next to his head, probably a heart monitor. Bruce has no time to investigate that, because he can hear a cold and disinterested voice on his other side.

“Test Subject is awake. We can start.”

Next thing he knows, the pain ripping through his body gets worse and he is shaking, pulling, ripping on the restraints. It does nothing, and also, there is no sign of him turning green at all. Which, even in his disoriented state, worries him to no end.

But now, he has to take the pain and the fear for both of them and he bites his lips bloody to stop himself from screaming.

When someone is touching his shoulder, in a mock-gesture of comfort, his mind goes crazy with pain, fear and old memories.

It feels like hours until Bruce is finally enveloped with the blissful darkness of unconsciousness.

*+~

Clint holds the controls of the jet in a white knuckled death grip and clenches his jaw hard enough for his teeth to hurt. Pain is good, pain helps him focus.

When he went to suit up, he managed to sneak away in the bathroom to make a few small cuts. Nothing major, nothing that will require more than a bandage and nothing that will hinder him in a fight. Just enough to _hurt_, and to keep his head calm and even.

Clint is pushing back every feeling, every emotion, and he channels it into anger. His fury is silent and seething, nothing like the yelling and complaining and breaking things that happens sometimes.

Right now, his anger is calm, quiet. It is terrifying and deadly, and god have mercy when he gets his hands on Ross or Mysterio or any other person remotely at fault for this, because he won't have any mercy for them.

It's not often that Clint finds murderous bloodlust in himself, but he sure feels it now, with every fiber of his being.

They hurt his family.

Everyone was forced to re-live traumatic memories, and Mysterio had taken advantage. Twisted and turned private and intimate things, for his own entertainment and to throw them into a panic.

Bruce is fuck knows where after Hulk fled from the attack in horror and if there is one scratch on him someone _will_ pay for it. Clint doesn't much care at this point, who.

He's always been protective of those he loves.

Phil knows this intimately well, as does Natasha. And now, this group of people he loves and cares for has grown so, _so much_, and he will do anything for them. It might be a little ridiculous that his protectiveness involves even superhuman and enchanted beings, but he will kick anybody and everybody who puts harm on any of them to hell and back.

*+~

_In the months after the Battle of New York, when Clint just comes to live in the tower after his trip to Ross' hellhole of a prison, he is broken, hurt and out of it. Especially in the early days he hardly lets anyone close to him – the others respect that, don't make it awkward and always ask if it is okay to come closer. It helps tremendously._

_Bruce is the one person besides Natasha who is allowed to touch him at first. The gentle scientist offers him help to take care of the injuries, and Clint takes him up on it, pathetically grateful. He's always had a very tense relationship with any sort of medical staff, but Dr. Banner is different, and he trusts him. _

_They don't talk very much in the beginning, but they enjoy each others company. _

_They meet up at odd hours of the night, sharing a pot of coffee while the oversized TV plays nature documentaries or children's cartoons in foreign languages. More often than not, Tony stumbles into the room in various states of awake and hot mess, and he flops down near them and steals a few sips of coffee from whoever sits closest._

_It's... Odd. It is comfortable, and it helps. They grow closer, and Clint finds himself relaxing around these people he's started to call “friends”. _

_All of them sleep like shit. Sometimes though, one or all of them will nod off on the spacious couch, surrounded by the low, soothing TV noises and the breathing of other people nearby. _

_Clint is surprised by how quickly and easily he starts to trust the others. Trust has never been easy for him, but somehow, this works out._

_The three of them spend a lot of time together in the tower, what with Tony and Bruce working from there most of the time, while Natasha is mostly away on SHIELD business, often along with Steve and with Thor being in Asgard. So, they see a lot of each other, bad days included. And those work out, too. _

_Deciding early on that they have two options; one, make it weird and suffer alone or two, suck it up and just be there for each other, the choice easily falls on option two. And if it ends up with three grown ass men snuggled up on the couch at three in the morning, so be it._

_Time goes on, and a lot happens._

_One day, after the whole “Phil is alive, holy fucking shit I will personally murder Nick Fury”-thing, Clint is in bed and wrapped around his husband one Sunday morning, and they just talk, about anything and everything. They've missed this._

_Half jokingly, Phil asks if Clint developed a little crush on Bruce._

_He laughs, quietly but honest, shrugs, and grins at Phil. _

“_What? He's cute, and a great cook.” and they both know that's only part of the answer._

_Phil grins back for a moment. “Well, that's certainly true. In all seriousness though, I'm glad you have him around. All of them, actually. It's good to know that, after... It's good to know that you didn't have to do this alone.” Phil says quietly, and pulls Clint closer. He lets him, feeling the lump in his throat and just holds on._

*+~

Irony has it, that they don't even make it past New York before all sorts of alarms blare and blink through the entire plane – they are being shot at.

Somehow, Clint manages to get them down without causing a crash. When he quickly unstraps himself from the seat as soon as they touch ground, he takes long, hard steps alongside his team, carrying his bow, three quivers and a number of knifes and handguns strapped to his person.

They don't have to search for the source of chaos at all – when they step out of the plane, they are greeted by armed military troops and, of course, Mysterio standing in the middle of it all and thoroughly enjoying himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up big time in regards of NaNo. But I'm still doing my best to get this done.  
Hope you enjoy, please mind the trigger warnings and if you would like me to add anything else let me know.
> 
> \- Psychological trauma, torture and horror  
\- Physical torture (not graphic)  
\- Mindfuckery in general  
\- PTSD, Trauma  
\- Violence  
\- child abuse  
\- sexual and non-sexual violence  
\- References to death and suicide

**NaNoWriMo successful??? Nah fam...**

** **

***+~ Chapter 5:**

Looking back, Clint wishes he'd have killed the fucking bastard on the spot when he had the chance. As it is, he launches at Mysterio while he is busy gloating all over the situation, and he surprises him enough to be able to get a few hits with his knife. He wants him to suffer for what he did, but unfortunately, it costs him.

Mysterio must be wearing some kind of protective gear, so he doesn't go down but he's bleeding. And also pissed off.

Clint keeps attacking the man, trying to knock this fucking fishbowl helmet off his head to punch him in the face, and he can tell that the others are attacking from afar, trying to keep the men with rifles in their field of vision and hinder them on getting any shots.

The whole thing doesn't last more than a few seconds, because everything happens at once, and then the dreaded smoke fills up the entire part of the city, and everything around them disappears once again.

*+~

Bruce wakes up. Not slowly, but with a start and searing pain ripping through his veins. It makes him choke on air, he can't breathe and all that rears through his brain is sheer panic.

He's still restrained, and under normal circumstances Hulk would have long made an appearance to tear these people apart and take the pain for them both. But he isn't.

Bruce can tell, even in his agony, that the rumble inside him that is the big green guy, is unusually quiet. Like he's being suppressed, which is new and concerning.

He can hear the distant humming of voices around him, and then somebody is touching him. A hand is placed onto his forehead, warm and human, and yet so painful.

Bruce has to bite back a scream, as the memories overwhelm him.

_It's the night after “The Battle of New York” is how the media calls it and Bruce has accepted Tony's standing invitation to come stay in the tower. He doesn't have anywhere else to go, he's exhausted and sleeping there sounds so much better than SHIELD or the streets. So he agrees._

_The tower got damaged, but it's not nearly as bad as many many other places in Manhattan – at least, Stark Tower is still standing and somewhat secure. _

_Bruce is laying in a bed that's much nicer and way more comfortable than anything he's ever slept on in his entire life, but he can't settle in. He can feel the anxiety creeping through him,and then the last few days just come crushing down on him and despite his exhaustion he's overwhelmed. He is gasping for air and trying to keep quiet, even though there is no one else is in this room. _

_The years on the run, his travel back into a country that's weary of him to say the least – a whole new group of people around him, aliens and fighting, fighting, fighting..._

“_Doctor Banner, are you in need of assistance?” asks the friendly British voice from the ceiling. JARVIS, he remembers. Stark's AI. _

_Bruce just shakes his head, hands clamped down over his mouth and nose to keep any noise in. He hopes that this will be enough – the last thing he want's is someone walking in and catching him in the middle of a breakdown. _

_It's ironic, how he feels more isolated in a metropolis full of people where he even shares a house with some of them, than he ever felt in a flimsy hut in the mountains somewhere far away or in the little corners in the outsides of a city. At the same time, his skin is crawling because there **are**_ _people near. _

_He doesn't want to hurt anyone else. _

“Increased heart rate, test subject shows signs of distress.” a bored voice recites from next to his head, and Bruce wants to strangle someone.

'No shit.' he has time to think sarcastically even while in agony, and he wishes he had a way to find out what they drugged them with to keep the Hulk from making an appearance, what their goal is and if they're anywhere near it.

*+~

The thing is, this time the mess spreads everywhere. It's not contained privately somewhere, like it was in the tower. They are in a well populated part of the city, and in one of the shop windows they can see that the whole thing is broadcaster live in TV. Which is just about the last thing they need.

While this fight is entirely between Mysterio and Ross' people against the Avengers, there are people around them.

“Please stay clear of the area. Civilians, please leave the area for your own safety.” echoes Iron Man's tinny voice all over the place, similar pleas are called out by other Avengers and people scramble, as if they needed to be told – but by the time Mysterio begins his little game again, not all of them were fast enough and get caught up in it.

Memories are laid open, and there is nothing they can do about it. Just like before, they try to get a hold of Mysterio and his B.A.R.F device. Worryingly, they can't see one bit of the armed men, and it's one unsettling, public shit show.

_A half empty beer bottle shatters, and the muffled, drunk yelling of his father gets almost drowned out by his shitty hearing. It always makes him even angrier when his younger son can't hear the words he spits at him, so he lets his fists speak instead._

_Barney gets inbetween Clint and their father, and he ends up in a bleeding, crumpled heap on the floor for his trouble. _

_A window breaks, spraying glass all over the room, and three men dressed head to toe in black enter the room – their faces are hidden behind masks. Phil bolts upright in the bed, hand automatically reaching for a weapon. The dark haired man next to him wakes up and screams in horror when he realizes what is happening – the fight is quick, brutal and messy. _

“_I can't do this, I can't! I'm done Phil, I'm sorry, I can't! It's over.” he stammers when they have a minute of peace and quiet after everything,and he understands. He understands this so well. He nods gravely, and says as much. At least, he can escape this life that he got caught up in. For Phil, that ship has sailed way too long ago. _

_For a while, the loaded gun in his bedside table looks very comforting. _

“_You belong here, Natalia.” the dark voice says, and they laugh, even as Natasha slaughters them all, face carefully closed off. That night, she holds hard enough onto Clint to leave dark purple bruises, and he holds her close, carefully stroking her hair and talking the entire time while Phil keeps watch, keeps them safe in this shithole that is their Budapest Safehouse. _

_He never thought he'd get to see space. Tony has a second or two to be fascinated, then the panic sets in, and the light of his ARC reactor starts flickering before everything goes dark._

_Two caskets in the front area of a church,and bouquets of flowers on them. Clint grips his brothers hand too tightly, squeezing hard enough even with his tiny eight year old hand to hurt. He's overwhelmed with the feeling of relief that Dad is gone, but also the grief that he took Mom with him. _

“_I gotta put it in the water. It's the only way.” - “Steve, no. Don't. We can find a way, I promise.” - “We can't. I'm sorry. I think I'll be late for our dance.”_

_Loki won't even look at him. And why would he? Thor has failed him, in his eyes, for too many times. He can slowly watch his brother turning into a stranger first, then an enemy. It hurts more and more every single day. _

_His sisters tombstone is shiny and new, although the flowers on it are starting to wilt already. Phil pulls them away to replace them with new ones, peach coloured roses, and it's the strangest feeling he's ever had so far. They'd just spoken over the phone before he left for his latest mission, and now he has to visit her on the graveyard. It's a wound that never quite healed – although there is nothing he could have done to save her, he still feels guilty for not having been there years later._

_Foster Family number one is just as bad as dad used to be. But here it's both parents that are drinking too much. But they're used to that already – they know what is coming, and already know how to deal with it._

_Another family, however, holds a whole new, previously unknown kind of evil, and the nightly visits of the man hurt much more and in a different way than Clint ever knew before – it happens in other places, too and he's forced to deal with it alone because Barney refuses to listen, just snarls at him to “shut the hell up and stop crying for fuck's sake.”_

_By the time they run away from the orphanage and make it to the circus, he knows the drill, and when they start coming into the trailer there, at least he gets a measly amount of money for it – it's only many years later, when all is over and he finds himself in a safe place that he realizes how fucked up all of this really was. Not like he didn't know before, but it's different to live it and to look back years later, when all there's left are mental and physical scars. _

It keeps going like this. All of them have to re-live things they don't want to think about. Things they wanted to keep to themselves – intimate and painful things, but also moments that none of them is proud of – fuck-up's, bad decisions. Assassinations. Hurting and killing people, even though they know there hadn't been a choice at the time except attack or die.

*+~

It happens when the smoke clears up once again. He doesn't realize what is happening until it's too late, and the tranquilizer needle is stuck in his neck.

Clint yanks it out, but he knows it's useless – he's already feeling dizzy, and the last thing he notices before everything goes black around him is the smoke that gets thicker and thicker, but he doesn't stay awake for long enough to realize what is happening.

When he wakes up again, he's all tied up, stripped of any weapons and down to his underwear and uncomfortably bent on the floor. He is blinking furiously, trying to clear his vision to take in his surroundings. The room around him is still blurry, but at least they left his hearing aids in. Small favors. Or they need him to hear them, which means there are either questions, or...

“Clint? Oh shit, I was hoping they didn't get you!”

The archer squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head in an attempt to clear up again. But he'd know that voice anywhere, and he just knows they're both screwed.

While he'd normally make a shitty joke along the lines of “Hey Baby, come here often?” he has no urge to do so whatsoever. Clint can feel the cold dread running down his spine.

“Bruce?”

Finally, the room stops spinning, and he can turn himself a little to make visual contact with his friend, and there he is, pale and bruised and battered, tied to a metal table, his eyes huge as he swallows a thick lump. Bruce just nods.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Search and, hopefully, rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go again. I hope you guys like this story son far.  
As always, please mind the trigger warnings. 
> 
> -Psychological trauma, torture and horror  
\- Physical torture (not graphic)  
\- Mindfuckery in general  
\- PTSD, Trauma  
\- Violence

***+~ Chapter 6: **

When it is all over, no one knows how they managed it, but it's likely happened with help.

Mysterio is arrested and in a highly secured van with a bunch of heavily armed SHIELD Agents, handcuffed and disturbingly calm. No ones knows what to make of it – Ross, if he ever was personally present is nowhere to be found, and the few soldiers they managed to get a hold of won't talk – yet.

In this whole mess, Phil is a whirlwind of snarling efficiency, tense and unable to stop moving in an attempt to find out where Clint vanished – today has been filled with way too many close calls, and they're missing two of their teammates.

They keep searching for hints, day and night.

Realistically, they know that Bruce most likely must have been captured after Hulk disappeared – otherwise he would have called any of them long ago. He knows now that they will always come to get him, even though it took years to get this into his thick skull. But he doesn't call now, and it scares them.

A gut feeling tells them, that he and Clint are probably around the same place by now.

Knowing the unpleasant histories both Bruce and Clint have with Ross, they want to get their friends back to safety right at this second.

On top of everything, they somehow need to keep it together when each and every one of them gets overwhelmed with the things Mysterio revealed. Putting all of their energy and efforts into finding their missing friends helps.

Phil is unusually snappish and short tempered, doesn't let go of his “Agent Facade” that he dropped around the Team ages ago. The work is the only thing that keeps him sane at the moment.

His phone won't stop ringing. SHIELD Agents with hints and hunches, various Avengers with actual information.

Scared and worried family members who had to learn about everything on CNN.

There is a reason he keeps this sort of shit secret from them damn it. He knows they mean well, and they love both him and Clint to pieces, but the sort of things that are everyday part of their lifes would scare them endlessly.

They don't know much – only very cropped and sanitized versions of unclassified missions, and the sort of Avengers missions that are public enough to be on the news. Even some of the things that happened in private to either him or his husband – they keep these kinds of memories to themselves, don't go around sharing. Most of it are things they don't want to talk about. Apart from each other, a therapist or two and Natasha, some of it is unknown to anyone else. Or at least, the gritty details are.

Thankfully, the virus didn't spread far enough to reach any of them.

The general public is now in panic, too. Most of them dismissed the symptoms as flu inducted hallucinations. At least, this is to be assumed – no one knows what any of them see or talk about behind closed doors.

Now, with this battle unwillingly broadcasted on live TV everything comes crashing down on them and Phil thunders through it, with gritted teeth and his head up high. It's not like there is a choice – he needs to stay calm and focused. He has to.

*+~

The scientists and Ross like mindfuckery – because of course.

They poke and prod, which is a very nice way of putting it. Sometimes simply place a hand on either of them, causing them to experience severe flashbacks that leave them panicked agitated while they scramble for sanity, clawing onto it and holding on threads.

Meanwhile, they force the other one to watch.

Whenever any of them gets close to Bruce, who is still strapped onto the metal table, Clint starts yelling obscenities at them, anything in an attempt to distract them, to keep them away from his friend.

“Hey! You, ugly motherfucker! Come over here if you're brave enough you fucking piece of garbage!”

His voice is getting hoarse from shouting so much, and Bruce pleads quietly in the privacy of his own head for him to shut up. They will end up hurting him, too.

But that has never stopped Clint, not when someone he cares about is in danger. It isn't stop him now, either.

It works for a short amount of time, but their tormentors always keep going. It doesn't stop the two friends from trying to protect each other in any way they can.

Neither of them knows, how much time went by. Bruce had been in and out of consciousness for hours (or days? Who knows at this point) and Clint got hit with the sedative before he woke up here. For all they know, they've been here for an eternity.

If only there was a way to be able to touch. But as it is, they're unable to do so, but even if they could, the skin contact would cause them more pain. Which has never been the case before.

*+~

Only decades of training keep Phil from hurling his mobile phone at the nearest wall. It's useless, and he wishes SHIELD would stop calling with hunches that lead to dead ends. But he answers, barks back and then hangs up again as he makes his way down in the main lab.

Right now, Steve is bent over stacks of paper and surrounded by holographic screens. He looks pale, tense and jittery. The dark smudges under his eyes are tell tales of sleeplessness, which is catching up to him even with the serum.

Natasha is perced on Tony's desk, furiously typing on a computer while she too looks strained and gray in the face. Tony doesn't look any better. He too works on anything he can find – neither of them has slept more than a few unruly cat naps lout of pure exhaustion.

“Any news?” Phil asks upon entering, and is disappointed, but not surprised by the negative response.

“We must be missing something, there has to be... Something.” He rubs one hand over his face, dark eye bags and too much stubble a stark contrast to his dull skin. “Anything.” His facade is starting to crumble.

They've had this conversation multiple times, but they will have it again and again, until they have both Clint and Bruce back at home and safe.

A sudden rumble of thunder makes them all jump, and moments later Thor enters the room. He too looks tense, but there is something else in his eyes. Anger, worry, just like everyone else. But also something that might be hope.

“I think I know where to find our brothers.” He starts, before any of them can even ask. “Apologies for my absence, but I traveled to Asgard and asked a friend for help. Heimdall helped me see, and we figured out the location of where they are held. But we must be quick, their condition worries me very much.” Thor explains, and for the first time in days, they feel a little bit of relief.

This fight is far from over, but at least, now they _know_.

*+~

There is noise down the corridor, and it seeps into the cold room. Bruce blinks awake. He turns his head in Clint’s direction.

“Clint? Can you hear that?” he breathes, fiercely hoping it wasn't his imagination.

“Can't hear shit right now, Bruce.” he slurs back, closing his eyes again. He's out of it, beaten and cut up. Both of them are exhausted. But Bruce is almost sure... Hopefully. It's hard to stay awake at this point.

But then the door explodes out if its hinges, and the flash of colors from their team mates uniforms is the last thing he recognizes. He passes out with a slight smile on his face, knowing that things will somehow be okay after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and a happy ending because why else would we sit through the angst fest if not for a happy end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The last chapter.  
NaNo kicked my ass and I was like "Fuck the word count" but at least I finished this story this month just as planned.  
Not much of a trigger warning here, just some discussions of past events, but I don't think this specific chapter needs a warning. If you made it through the rest this should hopefully be okay.  
Maybe for dealing with PTSD. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this, I hope you liked it.

***+~ Chapter 7:**

When Clint wakes up, he does so in a warm, soft bed and with a gentle hand slowly stroking his hair and cheek. Another hand is wrapped around his own, and it takes him a moment to figure out why that's odd. He squints against the bright light, but there is Phil, right there by his side and keeping up the comforting touch – there are no memories, no flashbacks. Just Phil and his familiar, soothing touch. He holds up one of Clint's bright purple hearing aids, and he nods his okay for him to put them in.

“Hey Honey. The fuck happened?” Clint asks in a scratchy voice.

“Hey yourself.” He smiles, and scoots closer. “A lot happened, but the important thing is you're safe. Everyone is safe. It'll be alright.”

“Bruce?” The worry is clear in his question.

“Right here in medical, just a few rooms over. He's still injured, but recovering. Whatever they dosed him with is wearing off. When the drug is out of his system, Hulk will be able to help him heal.”

Clint nods, then lifts up their intertwined hands.

“The touch-thing? Did I just dream that, or...” The scratch in his throat gets worse the more he's speaking. It must be obvious, because Phil is offering him a cup of water with a straw, which he gratefully accepts.

“No, that was real, unfortunately. When we got you two out of there, we also searches the whole place for evidence. Turns out, we found a lot of data and it helped to develop a cure. I'm sure Tony or Natasha can give you a long winded, scientific explanation for the details if you're ever bored enough to sit through that, but the bottom line is, it's over. We're all okay and so will be everyone else pretty soon. The antidote will be available for everyone who was affected.”

That's a lot of information. Phil stops for a moment, just touching Clint. It's grounding for both of them. He carefully bends down to kiss him, and it's the first time they have been able to do this in weeks, despite being together.

When Phil continues speaking, he keeps his face and voice carefully even.

“Ross is in jail now. He won't touch any of you ever again.”

Clint just nods, clearly exhausted from their short conversation. So he just pulls on Phil until he lays down next to him and they wrap around each other, as well as they can while Clint's body is littered with small and bigger injuries. He doesn't ask for a full damage report yet – he's tired of processing information. All he wants is having a few hours (or days, or weeks. Fuck it, years) of peace and quiet with his husband by his side.

They hold on tightly, soaking up every second of touch like a sponge. Clint rests his face in the crook of Phils neck, and the skin on skin contact is the best thing he's felt in a long time.

A few minutes of silence tick by. Then, Clint asks, too quiet for his own hearing aids to pick up, “Are you okay?”

Phil lets out a long breath and tightens his hold for a bit, but he nods wordlessly and drops a kiss onto Clint's head. Both of them fall asleep soon after that.

*+~

Bruce wakes up somewhere warm and soft, which he chooses to take as a good sign. There is also the tell tale feeling of another human close to him, body heat radiating and warming him up, although no one is touching him. He blinks, when he realizes the person next to him is also rambling away, and that's his last cue that it must be Tony – that, and the fact that he's currently reciting a recipe for homemade pasta, according to his Italian Grandmother. Which. Is kinda sweet but also what?

Bruce blinks again. Yup, homemade pasta recipe. And his best friend sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. Things could be much, much worse. He huffs a small laugh at the ramble, and that makes Tony realize that he's awake.

“Oh hey, you're with me.” He looks tired and like a hot mess, but his smile is one of the small, honest ones that not many people get to see.

“Yeah. What happened? And why pasta?” Bruce asks, and coughs a bit. His throat feels dry and scratchy, and he's happy about the water that Tony is offering him while he explains everything that happened while he was out.

“As for the pasta thing, I was running out of things to say. I've, uh, kept talking for a while. Creepy silence in a hospital room and all. Thought that'd be nicer to wake up to.”

For once in his life, he doesn't crack a single joke about Bruce falling asleep to him rambling away – god knows, it happens sometimes, although never on purpose. It even happens to other people, too. 'Talking the deaf guy to sleep out of boredom' is a joke that never gets old in the tower.

“So, this nightmare is over?

Tony nods. “Yes, it is. Finally”

Bruce sags back in relief, eyes closed. He's dead to the world, and in desperate need of more sleep. When Tony asks him if he would like some company, he just nods and clings onto his friend when he climbs into the bed next to him, arms slung around him and breathing evenly.

*+~

There is a steady stream of visitors for both Bruce and Clint, mostly Avengers who travel back and forth in between their rooms in small packs to hang out there for a few hours until they leave for the other room. Being together and spending time together helps all of them – there are many new and standing appointments with therapists, and they need it. But the biggest help is the knowledge that they are not alone.

All of them have learned a lot about each other in those last few weeks. Details that none of them ever wanted to talk about – secrets pried out in the open. It hurts, both knowing their own shit was made public, but also knowing the twisted and fucked up ways in which the people they love and consider family got hurt.

Quite a few nights, Natasha spends curled up on the edge of the bed with Clint, refusing to leave and snarling at anyone who is stupid enough to dare and try to get her to leave her best friend alone after everything.

Her grip is gentle, opposed to her usual nightly death grip that lead Clint to joking about having permanent indents in his ribs for Nat to lock into place. He's said that for the better part of a decade, and it still gets him a fond huff of laughter from her every time.

Besides, he sleeps better knowing he can provide a bit of comfort for her, too.

He wishes, Lucky could come down to medical, but he's still in a fancy dog hotel for the time being – after everything, he would have been alone for way too long. But still, he misses the goofy fellow. That dog has helped him through many, many bad days.

*+~

One day, something feels off.

It starts out with a bad gut feeling, but then Natasha enters the room in which Clint is still bed bound.

Bruce dragged himself out of his room and into a chair next to Clint, as his recovery is increasing since the drugs are flushing out of his blood. But they hadn't been able to see each other since their rescue and the anxiety got too much, even with reassurance that the other was safe and recovering.

Phil sits on his partners other side, one arm wrapped around him, and all three look up at her as she enters.

Natasha looks tense, in a way that means bad news.

“Beck escaped out of prison.” she informs them, talking about Quentin Beck in his real name, refusing to give him the satisfaction of using his self chosen “title” out of spite.

All three men curse. They hope he didn't get a hold of any of his illusional devices that played such a big part in his shenanigans as Mysterio.

She looks ready to make him disappear and never to be found again. So does Phil. He shares a look with his husband, then with Natasha, and nods.

“Will the two of you be alright here?” Phil asks, after gently kissing Clint and looking him in the eyes. He also gently squeezes Bruce's arm. The two of them still look like hell, but they nod.

“Go get him, we'll be fine. Be safe.” the scientist says.

“Kick him to hell.” Clint agrees, and signs a quick “I love you” at Phil, who responds with the same.

*+~

The room is quiet once the two of them left.

Clint suddenly feels cold and unsettled, and he can see Bruce's hands shaking from where he's sitting. His breathing seems off, and Clint frowns slightly.

“Hey.” he starts quietly, but Bruce shakes his head.

“I'm fine.”

“Uh huh, sure you are.” He lifts one corner of the blanket. “Get your ass in here.”

When he opens his arms, Bruce doesn't hesitate and closes the distance, hugs back as hard as he can without hurting Clint. He can't quite stifle the sob in time, and starts to apologize, face hidden but he's shaking violently by now.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-”

“Hey, no, it's okay.” One hand is rubbing circles in the small of his back, the other is absentmindedly running through his messy salt and pepper curls. It feels so good, but it makes him fall apart at the seams.

“None of us is okay right now. It sucks, but we're not alone. Let me help you, okay? I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Clint keeps his voice carefully even while he's talking, but he can feel the traitorous wetness in his eyes, too. After a little while, he stops caring.

The two friends hold onto each other through the storm, until both of them finally fall asleep, drained from all the emotions.

This is how their friends find them later that evening when they come to visit, fast asleep and curled around each other.

Steve and Thor sit down on either side of the bed while Tony makes himself at home on the lower end of the bed by their feet.

The three of them know, whenever and wherever Nat and Phil get a hold of Mysterio, he won't be seen anywhere ever again. And they're content keeping watch to protect their friends in their sleep until they are back with the good news.

There isn't anywhere else they'd rather be.

*+~

Time is a bit funny after it all.

Things are a mess, especially with the public after all the things that got revealed. None of them can stand watching the news anymore, and going out in public to get coffee turns into a shitshow almost every single time.

At first, they avoid going out at all costs. Then, one day, Natasha and Clint show up in the common area with a bleached blonde bob and a bright purple mohawk and looking more relaxed than either of them did in a long time.

“What's up? Midlife crisis?” Tony snarks goodnaturedly and earns himself an elbow to the ribs. “Ow.”

“Nah. I ain't going out in public looking like me. This should do the trick, I should hope.” Clint runs a hand over his closely buzzed sides. He's still getting used to it – Phil, however, seems to like it, if the small smirks and the fact that he likes running his hands over the short fuzz are anything to go by.

“Disguise works.” Nat shrugs, disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a 33.5oz jar of Nutella and a table spoon. No one bats an eye.

“I'd love to see Fury react to his punk rock sniper.”

“Yeah no, fuck that.”

“SHIELD?”

“Nope. Not anymore.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Huh. Fair enough.”

It's a topic Clint doesn't like to discuss – the trust issues from both sides after Loki had been bad. But after the most recent shit show, he refuses to set another foot there. Too much private shit is public – he doesn't trust them to not use it against him if they should see it fit.

Besides, he likes his job as an Avenger.

“I've got some more bleach and hair dye if you wanna rock something new. I can make your beard match my hair.” Clint offers to change the topic, and immensely enjoys the horrified look Tony gives him.

“Do. Not. Touch. My. Beard.” he slowly backs away from a grinning Hawkeye.

“Please don't – he wouldn't stop crying for a week when he fucked up with shaving that one time and he had to regrow the entire thing.” Steve quips from the couch and is met with evil cackling.

“Nooo, don't remind me! It was a dark, dark time!” Tony whines, dramatically clutching his chest.

“Fucking Drama Queen.”

*+~

Leaving the big city is the best thing they could have done for themselves.

The Tower in Manhattan is great, had been home to them for many years. But having said home blown up and invaded in such a way, it doesn't feel like a safe home anymore.

Luckily, the new training facility in Upstate New York had just been finished. While it's original intent hadn't been a permanent living space, it soon turns into one. It's sheltered from the public, and the carefully crafted park around it is beautiful at any time of the year. They have space, and air to breathe, alone or together, however they choose.

Clint spends many morning runs with Lucky around the lake, the one eyed dog happily jumping into the water whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Here, no one disturbs them and they can finally let go and take their time to heal both physical and psychological wounds.

Having their chosen family around helps a lot. They had been close before. But after this, they've grown together even closer.

There are still nightmares and bad days, but those will always be part of their lifes, no matter what.

The difference is, they don't have to face any of it alone.

They have each other, and always will.


End file.
